


The Pale Rider

by AnnaFan



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Sorry no canon characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-08-13 22:56:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7989199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaFan/pseuds/AnnaFan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anorien, TA2980. An eleven year old girl watches a mysterious stranger ride into town. It is the start of a sequence of strange and dangerous events that take a town already perched on the edge of violence into chaos. Will the chaos end in destruction or redemption?</p>
<p>Because I was watching a western the other day, and it was the classic "stranger rides into town", and I suddenly thought "I've never seen one of these where the stranger is a woman" - and suddenly I really, really wanted to read one.  So I thought I'd write one myself.</p>
<p>Apologies - no canon characters, just the world...  (Well, a passing mention of Eowyn as a framing device for the story).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Prologue**

Errisil shoved her greying braid over her shoulder, and pushed her sleeves back up her arms. Her hands were rough and chapped from scrubbing things clean – clothes, floors, bandages, blood-stained tables, men's wounds. The worst of the aftermath was over. It usually peaked in the night after a battle – that's when the ones who were really bad lost the struggle. The ones who made it to the morning had a fifty-fifty chance. It got better with time. For the lucky ones, at any rate.

Errisil looked around her. The half light of dusk filtered through the windows. Soon she would need the little oil lamp that she used as she made my night rounds. In the shadows, the low beds lined the walls of the dormitory. Men shifted uncomfortably in them, coughed up the smoke of battle, groaned as snatches of pain caught them. Sometimes they would murmur in that low, guttural language of theirs. Sometimes some of the ones who were not too badly injured managed to whisper brief conversations to one another.

The bed nearest to her held a man with hair the colour of corn, tied back with a leather thong. As Errisil moved towards the door, his eyes suddenly opened and fixed on hers. But they were glazed and didn't really see.

“Dernhelm, Dernhelm,” he croaked.

Errisil moved to his side and took his hand. 

“You're safe here.”

In response, he gripped it, but there was no sign of comprehension in his face. He was stuck somewhere on the battlefield of his mind. But some part of him seemed to have taken in the fact that she was speaking Westron, for he started to babble in the same language. “Dernhelm's fallen. The lad's a lady and he's fallen. She's killed the witch.”

Errisil reached for the bowl beside his bed, and wrung out the sponge. She swiped it across his brow, making shushing noises.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the rider in the next bed lever himself onto one elbow, looking anxiously at his comrade.

“He's fevered,” Errisil explained. “Not in his right mind. That's why he's babbling about lads and ladies.

“Nay, Mistress Healer,” the other rider said, in his growling accent. “He's asking after the lady. He made friends with the lad he thought was Dernhelm.”

Errisil's confusion must have shown on her face, for the man continued.

“It turned out she was the Lady Éowyn, the king's niece.”

“Oh!” Comprehension dawned. She sponged the sick man's forehead once more, then said soothingly, “The lady lives. Your Dernhelm will be well. Her fever has broken, her wounds are clean and healing.”

She didn't know if the man heard her, or if he understood, but at least he seemed to settle back on the pillow. His eyes shut once more and his breathing steadied.

The other man looked at Errisil. “I suppose you must think it strange, a woman riding to war. I suppose you know nothing of shieldmaidens.”

Errisil smiled at him. From the past, memories of a hot summer drifted into her mind. A summer filled with adventure and strangeness and wonder. And with fear and foreboding and a brooding violence. Her smile faded, but her voice was gentle. “Oh, you'd be surprised. But it was a long time ago now. More than two score years.”

“Your face tells me there's a tale to be told,” the rider responded. “If you're not too busy, mistress, perhaps you'd tell it to us. Nothing like a good tale to ease the soul and take a man's mind off his hurts.”

Errisil looked round and realised that she now had the attention of the handful of men who had enough Westron to be following the conversation.

“Well, it happened many years ago, when I was a lass. In my home town back in Anorien, just south of your country. I'll tell the tale as I remember it, with some extra bits that I pieced together later, afterwards, when I was old enough to understand what had happened. Anorien back then was a wild, lawless place. The Steward – Ecthelion it was back then – was too worried with the shadow in the East. And then there what was happening out to sea with the Corsars and down to the south. He didn't have the time to pay much attention to Anorien. But, like I say, it was a wild place back then.”

With that, Errisil settled herself down on a chair, arranged her skirts comfortably, and began her tale.


	2. The Pale Rider

Dargond and Erri lay on the hot roof tiles, idly dropping pebbles over the edge, watching the puffs of dust as they hit the dirt below. He was playing hooky from working the bellows at the forge, she was hiding from Ma and the washing. Time was when she didn't mind helping Ma with the washing. That was before… well, a long time ago now. Now every wash day… every any day… was filled with moments when Ma started to cry. Erri didn't like it when Ma cried. Didn't know what to say. Couldn't make it better. Neither could Da. He didn't like it either. So he went out and dug the vegetable beds, and tended to the cows, and scythed the hay for winter. And Ma stood over the wash tub and cried. And Erri ran off and played hooky with Dargond and dropped pebbles in the dirt.

It was the kind of summer's day where you could see the heat in the air. The kind of day when the dogs lay in pools of shade, rib cages heaving as they panted. When even the flies seemed tired and sluggish and easy to catch. The sky soared overhead, an intense, almost solid blue, as if a hawk that flew too high might crash into it. From up on the roof, the flat grasslands stretched out in all directions, shimmering beneath the sun. The long grass rippled, caught by eddies of warm air, like ripples on a pond, but other than that the air was still. No breeze blew, there was nothing to bring any respite from the baking heat.

Erri's eyes followed the sandy yellow line of the road as it streaked northward towards the horizon. Far, far in the distance she could see a wisp of dust rising into the air. A horseman, she guessed, a long way off still. Dargond shimmied down the wooden frame of the building to collect more pebbles, and she rolled onto her stomach, shading her eyes with one hand. Time passes slowly when you've nothing to do, and Erri watched the wisp creep across the plain, inching its way nearer to the town. 

She puzzled over the approaching horseman. Why would he want to come here? There were hardly ever visitors here. There was nothing to draw folk to the town. A dozen or so small holdings, a dusty track leading the mile or so to the lord's manor house, a handful of cottages, the mill, the smithy, and a store. There was also a dingy tavern selling bad beer (so Da said). It had a curmudgeonly landlord and a few girls living there who never seemed to get up before noon. Erri thought they were quite pretty. They had dresses that looked nice from a distance – with lace and ribbons and stuff. Though when you got close up they looked a bit worn and grubby. When she was younger, she used to ask Ma what the girls did – because never seemed to see them working. Ma would just huff, and her lips would set into a thin line, and she'd change the subject. Erri learned not to ask.

Dargond returned with more pebbles, and the children lobbed a few into the dirt before old man Anglor from the store yelled up at them to stop. Actually, he yelled a few more choice things. They laughed at him and tossed the rest of the pebbles at his feet – though they acted brave, they were too scared to actually throw them at him (Da would tan Erri's arse for that if he heard about it). Then they scrambled up the tiles and over the roof ridge, slithering down the far side and dropping into the narrow lane behind with the aid of the water butt. They made their way between the wooden buildings. 

“Let's go and see if we can pinch some buns by sneaking in the back of Mistress Meg's.” Dargond had a long-running feud with the baker's wife. He stole as much for the thrill of the chase as for the taste of the buns. In all honesty, the buns were usually a bit dry and tasteless. But Erri wasn't in the mood. 

“Nah, let's go onto the high street and see what's happening there.” For some reason, the distant horseman had grabbed Erri's imagination. She wanted to be there when he rode into the town. She couldn't put her finger on it, but she had this strange sense of impending excitement and danger.

They settled in the shade of a barn, near the horse trough, and wiled away a few minutes throwing a stick for one of the dogs that lurked around the barn. Erri batted away a few flies and kept half an eye on the northern end of the street. Eventually her patience was rewarded. The horseman hove into view.

The first thing that struck her was his horse. It was a magnificent animal, a chestnut with a fine head, delicate bearing and a quiet, understated strength. The horseman's dress identified him immediately as Rohirric. He wore leather trews and tunic, and (as the people from the north tended to) a lightweight summer cloak and headscarf designed to keep the worst of the hot sun at bay. 

The horse walked slowly up the street. There was a presence and sense of purpose to the man, at least that's how it seemed to Erri, a presence which the townsfolk lacked. As he got closer, from beneath the headscarf she saw a pair of blue eyes glittering. The horse stopped in front of the inn, and the rider swung himself from the saddle. He was lithe and, to Erri's surprise, a little below middle height. In the tales of her childhood, the men of Rohan had always been tall and broad. Still, she supposed even horsemen of the north had to come in all shapes and sizes. Then the man cast his cloak back from his breast, and unwound the scarf from his head.

Erri gave a gasp of surprise. Pale, almost white blonde hair bound back with a strip of leather cascaded down the rider's back. The jaw was firm and shapely, but narrow and delicate. The rider's breast, now Erri came to look twice, was rounded. The man was undoubtedly a woman. 

As Erri watched, a further surprise was in store. The rider hitched her horse to the rail in front of the inn and proceeded to walk towards the door.

“Let's climb up the back of the inn and see what's going on.” Dargond's voice was agog with curiosity.

The inn was forbidden territory – grown-ups only, men only (apart from the girls in their fancy dresses). Which was why the rider striding towards the door came as such a surprise. And of course, why snooping around inside was all the more tempting. They'd found out long since that if they climbed up through the little box room at the back they could hide in a niche on the balcony which ran round the bar downstairs. And that's what they did now, running round the alley at the side of the building and shimmying up the wooden frame at the side of the building.

They slid into their vantage point just as the rider stepped up to the bar.

“A tankard of ale, landlord.” The rider's voice was a full contralto, deep, a little harsh even, perhaps from the dust on the road.

“We don't serve ladies, missy.” The landlord glanced round, then his eyes widened as he took in the appearance of the woman behind the voice. There was a long moment of silence. The woman did very little, just narrowed her eyes slightly and let her hand rest for a moment on the hilt of her sword. Then she dropped a silver coin on the bar. It spun there for a moment before falling onto its side. A quarter of a castar. 

Erri watched as the landlord dropped his gaze. She could have sworn his shoulders sagged slightly as he turned and poured a mug full from the barrel behind him. He was business-like as he put the tankard on the bar, but seemed to avoid her gaze as he pocketed the silver coin.

The woman lifted the mug and took it to a table. She sat on the bench with her back to the wall, her chosen seat affording a clear view of the room. Stretching out her legs, she took a pull at the ale. Around the room the men in twos and threes at other tables or leaning against the wall eyed her. Curious, suspicious, unsettled, off balance… aggressive. Erri could taste the tension in the air.

Eventually, one of the men lounging in the back of the room near the bar pushed himself away from the wall. Erri recognised him. Garon. There was something about him, the way he looked at her even though she was only just turned twelve, that made her edgy. She'd heard a whispered conversation between Ma and her auntie. Something about some girl – her auntie's cousin's girl – and Garon being up to no good. She still remembered her Ma's words, lips in that thin line again: “though if she would walk home alone...” Erri had spent a long time after that snippet of conversation thinking about all the times she had to walk home alone. And wondering what sort of things might happen. And wondering how you made sure that Garon wasn't there.

Garon moved across the bar, and that taste of tension became as sharp as the taste of blood when you bit your tongue. Erri forgot to breathe as she watched him slide onto the bench beside the rider.

“You're a pretty l'il thing, ain't you?” Garon's voice was that sort of false friendly adults put on when they're humouring you. Erri thought how weird it was to hear it used to a grown woman.

The rider stared straight ahead, but Erri felt as though she could see her pose tighten.

“I said, you're a pretty l'il thing.”

Still no response.

“Ain't you gonna answer me?” The fake friendly tone had gone. In its place was an ugly sound.

“I wasn't aware you'd asked a question.” Again, that level contralto voice, strangely emotionless. Garon reached out his hand towards the woman's thigh.

“I wouldn't do that if I were you.” Her voice remained the same, neutral, matter-of-fact.

His hand dropped onto her thigh, fingers dangerously near the place Ma always told Erri nice girls didn't touch.

The rider moved like lightning. She jerked her thigh away, so Garon's hand slapped onto the bench. As she did so, she reached out and pulled Garon's own knife from its sheath on his belt, and slammed it through between his bones and sinews, pinning him to the wood below. Before he even managed to scream, she stood, drained the tankard of ale, then tossed another silver coin across the room to the barman. 

“To cover cleaning up the blood.”

And then she left.


	3. The limping man

Erri's next encounter with the rider came the next morning. She was supposed to be collecting a bag of flour from the mill. But there didn't seem any need to hurry. Ma was a bit better this morning and Da was staying near the house for once, lifting the last of the potatoes and digging over the vegetable patch. Ma had even managed to hold off the tears long enough to pick and shell a bag full of peas, and when Erri had left, she'd been spreading them on wooden trays to dry in the sun. It had felt almost like a normal morning from the time before.

Erri knew she should go home. Part of her wanted to: these calm moments needed to be savoured and hoarded up to carry her through the next storm. But at the same time she knew how precarious these moments were. It seemed more than likely that when she got home some random chance happening would have set Ma off. So it seemed safer to stay out a bit longer, enjoying the pretence that everything was fine.

She sat in the shade near the bakery, drinking some water. She wished she had a spare copper penny to buy a currant bun. But there were never spare coins in their house. Not these days. Not now there was no-one to earn a wage doing bits of herding and sheep shearing and all that stuff. She could feel her eyes pricking and gave a defiant sniff. She wasn't going to do that. Ma did enough of that for all the rest of them. She looked up, searching for a distraction.

And there was one! About twenty paces away, she saw Turin. He was limping slightly, like always, but still covering the ground with those long legs of his. He held himself like the soldier he'd once been, back straight, head held high, alert, ready. To Erri, he seemed ancient – vertical lines on his brow from frowning, a dusting of grey in his dark hair. But da talked about him as “the young soldier boy.” Da and Ma had odd ideas about what counted as young. 

“The Steward's Lieutenant at Arms”, that was his official title. But most folks out here in Anorien used the Westron word, Shiriff. He'd been here, what, three months? Four maybe? He'd arrived after… after things happened. Too late to do anything about it. Not that there was much he could do. Erri had heard Da talking to his friends, about how the Shiriff seemed like a decent enough man, but there wasn't a thing he could do against a more powerful man, a man with hired muscle at his back.

But he did his best. There were less bar room brawls. Stuff didn't get stolen from the general store anymore. She'd heard her Auntie say the girls in the pretty dresses weren't getting roughed up as much. 

(That one had confused her; why would anyone want to rough them up? Erri knew the rules. Men weren't supposed to rough up ladies. They were supposed to be chivalrous. Though she found it all confusing – the same men that would sound off about how they were the big man and they could take care of their wife and see off any man who came sniffing around… somehow, they were the same men whose wives got black eyes quite a lot. She knew this because sometimes the wives ended up in Ma's kitchen, having a good cry while Ma made them herb tea. At least Da wasn't like that. He was kind to Ma. Just didn't know what to do when she cried. So he went to the fields and kept out of her way...)

Erri watched the Shirrif come closer. When he got to within about ten paces, he glanced left. From the door of the general store, a figure emerged – the rider. She was simply clad in a homespun tunic and leather breeches, cloak round her shoulders, gold hair glinting in the sunlight. Catching sight of her, Turin changed direction and limped towards her.

“Good day, mistress…?” The rising tone in his voice suggested he was waiting for a name.

“Edith.”

“Mistress Edith.”

“Just Edith'll do fine. And you are?”

“Turin, the Steward's Lieutenant in this town. I heard you were involved in a spot of bother yesterday.”

“Was I? Can't say I recall it.”

The Shirrif's face remained mostly impassive, though his eyebrows lifted for an instant. “I heard you nailed Garon's hand to a bench with his own knife.”

The shield-maiden gave a shrug. “Or maybe his own hand slipped as he was passing it to me to show it off.”

The Shirrif stared at her. She met his gaze. Erri half expected the Shirrif to drop his eyes the way the barman had, but he didn't. He wasn't aggressive – just assessing her, somehow. As if he was trying to make sense of her. Erri didn't get any sense that he felt particularly ill disposed towards her, or the contrary for that matter. Just interested. Eventually he spoke.

“Well, strangely for a bar full of people, it turns out there weren't any witnesses. But I'll give you two pieces of advice for free. Garon's a nasty piece of work, and he'll be looking out for you. And I don't like trouble in my town, and I'll be looking out for you too.”

He put his hand to his chest, like a man does to a lady, or to a man he recognises as a comrade, then turned and limped away, still ramrod-straight.

~o~O~o

 

An hour or so later, Erri caught up with Dargond. She was beginning to worry she'd be in trouble for not going straight home, but they came up with a plan to placate Erri's Ma; catch a couple of coneys for the pot. Of course, this was the point at which a bow would have been useful but Dargond's father had confiscated his after he shot the cat the week before. Dargond swore blind it was an accident but his dad hadn't weakened. So Erri and Dargond were stuck with a slingshot and a handful of sharp stones.

It was Dargond who came up with the idea of climbing the tree to get a better vantage point. And Dargond who'd insisted on being the one with the slingshot, because he said loftily that boys were better at that sort of thing. And Dargond who insisted on shuffling out along the narrow branch so he could get closer to the warren.

Erri knew it was going to happen a heartbeat before it did. But in the same instant, she knew there was nothing she could do to stop it. She sat, frozen against the bole of the tree. There was a loud crack as the branch gave way, then a sickening thud as Dargond hit the ground, then, for a moment, silence. Then Dargond screamed. Erri clapped her hand over her mouth in a desperate attempt to stop her gorge rising. Dargond's leg lay twisted to one side at an impossible angle. She shuffled down the trunk and scrambled to his side, kneeling in the dirt.

By this time, Dargond's initial screams had subsided to a sort of animal whimpering noise. Erri gritted her teeth and looked at his leg. She couldn't see blood showing through his britches. She had a fuzzy memory that this was good. She remembered that when old man Hathol's herdsman had broken his leg, her Ma had brought home the news that you could see the bone, all white and jagged, poking through the skin. She swallowed another wave of bile. The wound had let the evil humours, and the herdsman had got fevered then died. Erri gulped back a sob.

“Wait there, Dar, I'll run for help.”

With that she got up, and hitching her skirts high, set off at a sprint towards the dirt track that led back towards the town.

It wasn't as hot as the day before, but she still ended up sweating like crazy, her hair plastered to her face, getting in her mouth, making her gag. Before long she got a stitch. She kept running as best she could, through the waist high corn, only half height, ears still green. Eventually, she reached the edge of the dusty road and tumbled down the bank, almost landing under a horse's hooves.

She looked up to see a chestnut stallion looming over her. And on its back, the rider.

“My friend. He's bust his leg. Bust it bad.”

The rider swung herself down from the saddle and lifted Erri to her feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since the hobbits of the Shire have the word "shirrif" I hope that it will not seem to much of a stretch to imagine that other places might have the same Westron word.


End file.
